Heavy Rebel Weekender

 

It was a crispy July morning in Winston Salem. I was at the car show, soaking in the sun, as the candy paint reflections of hot rods and choppers cooked my skin from all angles, like the Smoke Out did the weekend before. To my delight, no one mentions the heat. Conversations are hush, and attendees quietly reflect on the shrine of chrome and steel before them. The cars and bikes are louder and wilder than any one person in attendance.

 

When the natural light dimmed, the core group and myself retreated into the Millenium Center of Winston-Salem, NC, for southern-fried rock and roll of all different colors and flavors. Within a couple of hours the river of PBR had carried the party to its destination. I found myself in a dim basement flanked on all sides with flying beers cans, glitter-filled balloons, and overhead plumbing. The crowd screams, “HOLD FAST!!” with the beat of the drums. This practice is called the Heavy Rebel Weekender, 14 years old. At Heavy Rebel Weekender the contrast between the nights and days is… well…

 

 

Heavy Rebel’s basecamp is called the Millennium Center, although it seems a half-century older. The building looks like a courthouse from the street. Once inside, the 30-foot ceilings can only been seen by the lusty red lights that wrap every bulky support pillar. PBR sponsored flags with the ghosts of rock and roll, like Johnny Cash adored the perimeter of the main concert hall, laying blessing upon their pilgrims. With three days of endless bands, Heavy Rebel fills three different stages, almost never leaving an empty slot. This often divides the small crowd in attendance, but makes each show intimate. They are memorable, and in my experience worth the trade off of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. 

 

The two smaller stages move you down into the “The Underground,” a dark and industrial basement that echoes each drumbeat and howl. Long passages separate these two stages, with only the competing music to guide you. You can almost hear the creaks of Old Hank’s bones in the echoes.

The event has more than enough room to grow in the old Venetian venue. Some large rooms on the top floor are left empty, except for the deep, wooden bars, and you practically have visions of all the rye bourbon, mint juleps, etc. that the past events have demanded. 

“Welcome to the Overlook Hotel, Mr. Torrence. What’ll it be?” said a voice in my head.

“I’m awfully glad you asked me that, Lloyd.” I replied. 

 

 

If you took away all the cars and motorcycles at Heavy Rebel Weekender, it would still be a music festival mecca. However, they are inseparable. This is the “kulture” crowd: the Model T rat rods, ’57 Chevy’s, and chromed out pickup trucks are ridden there by the same people standing next to you by the stage. The focus is on the cars, but the choppers were in full force. Gorgeous shovels and panheads sporting candy paint jobs littered the any spaces between the cars.  The list of bands is too long to mention, but one look at their website will relieve all fears of a dull moment. 

 

Being anywhere in the event was an experience. Walking through the halls you could hear Hard Days Night by the Beatles crooned through with 60s surf vibrato guitar by “Drunken Prayer”. The singer sounds like Jerry Lee Lewis’ voice was trying to jail break from his chest. Pair this dimly lit basement me and I felt like I’m in the deleted scenes of Pulp Fiction. I took to my left and suddenly Jillian Rossi of Hell Cat Pinstriping appears out of nowhere (it’s kind of her thing). 

 

 

She is beaming from ear-to-ear, and is wearing a slightly different emotion than from when I saw her earlier in the heat of the car show. 

“Ice cold pinstriping! Get your pinstriping here!” she yelled that morning, slicing through the crowd with her Radio Flyer wagon. This girl expertly worked the crowd, but she has never needed any help getting attention. I remember her telling me how excited she was about being able to see the bands. “This is my first real rockabilly show.” I shared in her excitement. I had never been to such a broad music festival in the South.

All string bands like “Lucky Tubb and The Modern Day Troubadours” bang away on standup basses, the thick metal strings wobble chaotically across the necks like a loose drive chain on a chopper. A water barrel turned garbage can was dragged into the crowd during “The Goddamn Gallows” set. Everyone present immediately recognized their responsibility to fill their hands with rummaged PBR cans and try their luck at hitting their favorite band member (of which there were many). 

When some of the band members started throwing them back, it was of course time for a mosh pit. After a few close calls with elbows and cans, Jillian hid behind my shoulder in between gleefully firing off her own shots. She was the old west gunfighter and I was the bullet-riddled horse in the middle of the shootout. It was nice to feel needed. I realized now that basically everyone reeks of beer for the entire three day span, like any other motorcycle event worth its salt.

 

 

 

Side car distractions added a whole ‘nother level of flavor to the event. Burlesque shows in the “Wiggle Room” welcomed women of all persuasions to strut their stuff. The ladies were more than helpful in providing the audience and their date’s some tasteful boudoir inspiration to gritty but powerful soundtracks. Like anyone else trying to get to Carnegie Hall, it was clear that the ladies had practiced. Tiny Tulips, my personal favorite (the girls all chose their own stage names) delivering a steamy performance by acting out a scene of a church-goer stripping off the layers during the Sunday service. She was gorgeous. To see her later sipping a beer and looking ready to actually attend that church service was an eye opener. All the amateur performers were present at the concerts throughout the night. 

Krispy Krème eating contests, and mud wrestling, and other contests filled the voids in the afternoon heat between the bands. My only regret of the event was missing the PBR drinking contest on Saturday morning to sneak into the Sheraton hot tub across the street from the event. 

 

“I could use some water,” I said to James in the elevator, headed back to the concerts. 

“You and me both man. It was great though,” says a stranger standing behind us.

“Whats that? Heavy Rebel?”

“No. Well, yeah. Yeah. Eight beers in one minute! I won the contest,” he beamed. We shower him with praises.

“Thank you, thank you. I do what I can. We’ll see you over there… Wait… this isn’t my floor.”

He walked away laughing. Long live the king. 

 

After three days of Southern rock and roll, I repacked my hardtail sporty with an equal degree of difficulty as the Beer King that Monday morning. I was careful to swing by the Millennium Center, to see nothing, just as I had predicted. Heavy Rebel was gone, dispersed amongst Dixieland, just like the old ghosts of rockabilly themselves.